Careful What You Wish For
by EmilBondevik
Summary: Description: What happens when three countries all wish to change one they love at the same time? Their wish gets granted, of course! But just what will America, Italy, and Norway do when they realise that their wishes to change England, Germany, and Iceland might not have been for the best?
1. Alfred's POV Part 1

With a large sigh, Alfred F. Jones flopped down onto his bed. It had been a long day, at least in the American country's eyes.

He had gotten back from an exasperating meeting with his allies a few hours prior. While these meetings almost always consisted of constant arguing, screaming and not getting absolutely anything important done, this one was exceptionally stressful.

The representation of England, also known as Arthur Kirkland, had insulted him in a way that made Alfred feel like the Brit had crossed the line. Sure, Arthur normally was one to angrily spout any negative thing he could think of about the American, however, Alfred had gotten rather used to them, and this was the first to actually hurt the American badly.

"_No one will ever love you."_

A simple sentence that rang throughout Alfred's mind, repeating over and over. If these were words spoken from anyone else, they likely wouldn't have affected him. Just another meaningless insult from another meaningless person. But from Arthur, they meant so much more. They _hurt _so much more.

And, as if to add insult to injury, Arthur had added, "_Least of all, me."_

Why the Brit had felt the need to add such a statement was unknown, but the only thing Alfred could think of was that Arthur knew how Alfred felt. No matter what the reason was, it pained Alfred so much that he had run out of the room with a red face, not even retorting anything. That was embarrassing, but it wasn't as embarrassing as if he had stayed in there and everyone had seen him cry. No, nothing would be as embarrassing as that.

Alfred did cry. He cried a lot. He cried while he ran down the sidewalks; he cried while he burst into his house; he cried while he sat in the shower with the bathroom door locked (although he lived alone) and the hot water running down his face; he even cried while he sat down with a bowl of popcorn and turned on a comedy.

After all of that, he had finally managed to calm his tears down with a bowl of ice cream. He hadn't cared about having a proper dinner; he barely did normally, and he definitely wasn't in the mood to cook or go out and get something.

Now, here he was, lying on his bed, his blue eyes tracing the walls and moving upward, stopping and staring blankly at the ceiling. His glasses sat on the table beside him, his hair messy and his shirt unbuttoned. His cheeks were still red; his eyes were still glassy. He was quiet, listening to the sound of his own breathing.

After about ten minutes, he let out a tired "Why?" He knew no one could hear him, and was just asking himself. Asking the air. Asking the world. Asking the universe.

"Why can't Arthur just love me like I love him? Why can't he be nicer? Why-"

He took in a deep breath, closing his eyes. He reached next to him and grabbed his pillow, stuffing it into his face and screaming. Screaming about how he loved Arthur more than anything. Screaming about how Arthur hated him. Screaming about how no one likes him.

After a few minutes of ripping out every loud, harsh, glass shattering, angry, sad, stressed noise his vocal cords could make, he threw the pillow down, breathing heavily. He sat in silence again, except for his breathing which was louder this time.

"I wish Arthur was nice... and happy… I wish…" Alfred breathed out, his voice dry, raspy, and quiet: almost inaudible. He gritted his teeth, letting out another scream, this time without the pillow to muffle the ear-piercing noise.

He rolled over onto his side, feeling a few tears to add to the buckets he had shed today fall down his cheeks. He looked at the small photograph that had sat on his bedside table for years, of one of the few times him and Arthur seemed genuinely happy to be spending time with one another. It was in December, at a Christmas party.

Alfred couldn't tell you who had thrown the party, what day or year it was, or even what else had happened that night. But he knew that he was happy and that Arthur was happy. He knew that the smiles in the photograph were genuine. And he knew he craved for more of those moments, more photos, more smiles.

Alfred ran his hand along the photograph, muttering "I wish he felt the same way I feel about him; that he cared about me _more than anything else in the world." _

He then rolled back over, closing his eyes once more. Eventually, his mind found sleep, and he silently dreamed of a world where Arthur was his. A world with nothing but moments like those in the photograph.


	2. Alfred's POV Part 2

Alfred yawned as the sun shone through his curtains, waking him up. He blinked his drowsy blue eyes open. The world around him began to focus, and he noticed something strange.

There were noises coming from downstairs. But Alfred wasn't expecting company any time soon. Swiftly he sprang out of bed and grabbed his glasses and baseball bat, slowly making his way out of his bedroom and toward the staircase. He quietly descended the stairs, making sure to be as silent as possible, the baseball bat ready to hit whatever intruder had entered his fortress of solitude. He felt his heart racing slightly as he tried to keep his still sleepy mind focused. What if it was a robber or murderer or something?

He made his way into the kitchen, which was the source of the noise. He stopped in the doorway as he looked inside, lowering his bat slowly.

"Oh! Alfred, you're awake!" said Arthur, who was dressed in a white polo, khaki pants, and a pink apron. He smiled brightly at the American. He turned around to reveal that he was setting the table, which had plates of bacon, pancakes, scrambled eggs, sausage, and French toast on it. There was one place set, with a purple napkin that was neatly folded like a flower, and candles that were in the centre of the table.

Alfred's mouth was agape and he was silent. This had to be some sort of dream.

"I hope you don't mind, but I let myself in. I wanted to surprise you with breakfast!" the Brit chirped.

Alfred took a step forward and propped his bat up against the wall, utterly confused. "You…cooked?" he asked. As surprising as it was that Arthur was here and smiling in the first place, it was even more surprising that the Englishman had cooked a whole meal by himself without burning the house down, and that it actually smelled _good_.

"Of course! Come and have some, you must be starving!" Arthur exclaimed, pulling out a chair for Alfred to sit down at the table.

The American walked over and sat down, Arthur pushing the chair in for him and sitting down next to him. Alfred took the napkin and placed it onto his lap, feeling a bit like he was at a restaurant. Arthur served him, giving him a portion of everything and watching intently as the American hesitantly picked up his fork. Alfred started with the French toast, slowly grabbing a bite and lifting it into his mouth. His eyes lit up in surprise and delight. It was the best French toast he had ever had. It was bursting with flavour and made perfectly: with extra cinnamon just the way he liked it.

"This is… amazing, thank you Arthur," Alfred said, eating the rest of the food like he hadn't eaten in years.

"Only the best for you, Alfie!" Arthur said cheerfully, giggling a bit.

After Alfred finished, Arthur grabbed his dishes and brought them to the sink, before going into the other room, instructing Alfred to remain seated where he was.

Alfred assessed everything that had just happened in his mind. This was very strange. When did Arthur learn to cook? And why was he acting so nice? And he hadn't even mentioned anything about what had happened the day prior.

Arthur soon returned, snapping Alfred out of his thoughts. He looked up, noticing Arthur holding a large pink gift box that was decorated with blue ribbon. The Englishman set it in front of him. "I got this for you!" he said.

Alfred examined the gift carefully. A part of him felt like this could be some sort of prank or practical joke. He was very cautious as he untied the ribbon, closing his eyes as he quickly removed the top. At the realisation that nothing happened, he opened his eyes again and looked down. There was bright blue tissue paper that obscured something.

Alfred carefully moved the tissue paper to reveal an actual size replica of Captain America's shield. His eyes widened as he tapped it, feeling that it was real metal, not even plastic. He was speechless.

"A-Arthur… I… thank you…" he said, picking it up out of the box and examining it. He flipped it around. You could even wear it. His face lit up in a bright smile and he quickly put it on.

"You're welcome Alfie! I had to get you something."

Arthur paused for a moment as he came to realise something. "How much did this cost?"

"Don't worry about that, love!" Arthur said, coming up behind Alfred and massaging his shoulders. "Only the best for the man I care about _more than anything in the world._"

"I uh… thank- wait… what did you just say?"

"Hmm?" Arthur gave a curious look.

"You just said something strange…"

"I did? I was just saying that you deserve the best!" Arthur exclaimed, wrapping his arms around Alfred's neck.

Alfred chuckled a bit awkwardly. "Maybe it was just my imagination…" he muttered.


End file.
